


Unspecified Winged Beings We Have Heard On High

by bodhisaltva



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Goats, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:09:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodhisaltva/pseuds/bodhisaltva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My giftee asked for MarcEarl, goats, holiday movies, and armed Janice. I attempted to deliver. Merry merry!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspecified Winged Beings We Have Heard On High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [microwaveslayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/microwaveslayer/gifts).



Earl stood hesitating between the massive Corinthian columns that framed the (equally massive) door, finger poised over the doorbell. He was tempted to ignore it in favor of a discreet knock, but he knew from experience that such a knock would be ignored. Marcus enjoyed the theatrical. “If I’d wanted people to knock, I would hardly have installed the platinum knocker cage, would I,” he’d drawled the one time Earl had confronted him about it.

Noticing that the perpetual gardeners had paused in their unending labor to stare at him, Earl closed his eyes and depressed the large, glowing button. A small window beside the door lit up. Inside, a weary-looking man with a long red beard hefted a set of bagpipes and proceeded to serenade the house, the manicured gardens, and at least five miles of the surrounding desert with an ear-splitting rendition of “Scotland the Brave.”

As the final notes died away, Earl uncovered his ears and awaited the smooth click that usually signalled the opening of the door. Instead, he heard a muffled, “Come in. Or, like. Whatever.” He turned the knob, and the door swung silently outward to reveal a vast foyer with a gleaming black and white marble floor.

Earl stepped inside, nodding to the piper (he had once made the mistake of attempting to tip him for his services - the man had almost injured himself in his haste to refuse the gesture). “Marcus?” he called. “Are you here?”

“Come find me, darling” was the reply, delivered through the intercom system and followed by a self-indulgent chuckle. Earl drew on his rusty triangulation skills to locate the source of the sound, determining that the speaker must be in the northeast quadrant of the mansion. Indeed, as he proceeded through archways and across hallways, his non-skid chef’s shoes dragging on the sumptuous carpeting, he began to detect a hint of Marcus’s signature Clive Christian cologne.

Then he rounded a corner and found himself nose to nose with the man himself. Earl took an automatic step backwards, tripping over both his feet and his words as he stammered out a greeting.

His… boyfriend, he supposed? (lover? sexual partner?) was slouching in the doorway of the master bedroom, ensconced in a claret velvet dressing gown. The garment was open to the waist, revealing an expanse of tanned, hairless chest. It was possible that Marcus was wearing undergarments beneath the robe, but Earl suspected not. He cleared his throat. “Um. Are you going to let me in?”

Marcus arched an eyebrow and smiled lasciviously. “Oh, am I ever.” He allowed the final word to dip into his lowest, dirtiest register.

Earl’s cheeks burned. “Into the room, I meant!”

The smile grew wider, revealing a row of perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth ( _Not quite like a military cemetery, though_ , Earl thought sourly), but Marcus stood his ground. “Nope.”

Earl sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It probably smelled like the traditional holiday bovine pituitary glands he’d served at the restaurant this evening. He really wanted a shower. “Come on, Marcus. If you want to get this `traditional holiday celebration’ underway, you need to let me by so I can wash up.”

In lieu of response, Marcus tilted his head back, fixing his eyes on something over his head. Earl followed his gaze. Above the infuriating tycoon, suspended in the impractically high archway, there hung a sprig of something green, white, and suspicious. Earl narrowed his eyes, taking a step closer. “Wait a minute. Is that - “

Before he could finish the sentence, Marcus had seized him by the shoulders and pressed a fervent kiss to his lips. Earl barely had time to push away and yelp a wordless protest before the room spun around him and he felt the sickening sensation of his organs and limbs growing, shrinking, and shifting position.

When he reoriented himself, he realized that his center of gravity was now a great deal closer to the carpet. He looked down and back: hoofs. A pair of hoofs attached to a pair of furry legs. He squinted. Make that two pairs. He looked up, directly into the sideways pupils of… yes. A fucking goat. An ineffably wealthy-looking (and inexplicably winged) goat.

“MAAAAARCUS,” Earl bleated.  

The other goat, which had been examining its own hoofs in some bewilderment, drew itself up to its full goatly height, fluffed its goatly wing feathers, and fixed Earl with a superior look. “Yeeeeah. Whaaaaat,” it muttered.

“Was thaaaaaat…. fuuuucking…. miiiiistletoe?”

Marcus turned his back and began munching on a tapestry. “Whaaaatever. Just waaaanted a special holiday.”

Earl automatically lifted his foreleg in preparation to pinch the bridge of his nose, and promptly tumbled over onto his own snout.

 

* * *

 

“HOW CAN YOU NOT MIND HIM BEING A DENTIST.” Cecil sprang to his feet, scattering popcorn into the air. A stray piece impaled itself on one of Khoshekh’s dorsal spines. The floating cat, gently plucked from his hovering place in honor of the holiday, hissed sleepily in protest.  

Carlos grabbed his boyfriend around the waist and pulled him back down onto the couch. “Cecil, honey, hush! You’re going to wake Janice.”

“But Carloooos…” Cecil gestured at the tv screen, where the animated elf was declaring its endodontic aspirations. “I mean, is that the kind of thing that goes on in…” He lowered his voice. “Canada?!”

Carlos wrinkled his brow. “Which part? I think there are reindeer, like, way far up in the north.”

“No! Not that. I mean the…” he swallowed uncomfortably. “The dentistry.”

“Oh. Well, sure.” He laughed softly and kissed his boyfriend on the nose. “How else do you take care of your teeth?”

“You let the Spire take care of it, like sensible people,” Cecil muttered, darting a sidelong glance at the offending elf.

Carlos sighed. “If this is going to upset you so much, maybe we should just turn it off.” He reached for the remote, waggling his eyebrows as he added. “I’m sure we can think of something else to do.”

Cecil hummed in wordless agreement and reached for him, but in the sudden silence they both heard an unmistakable “click click click” from the direction of the rooftop. Cecil’s eyes widened in horror, and he sprang from the couch. “Oh no,” he whispered. “No no no. I thought we had taken care of this.”

“What’s the matter?” Carlos was whispering as well, though he wasn’t sure why.

“ _Santa_.” Cecil spat the word through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry though, my Carlos. You’re safe. We’ve built the traditional bonfire, all of the doors are locked and draped with evergreen branches… it’s been years since the last incident, but you can’t be too careful.” As he spoke, he silently hefted a fireplace poker and crept towards the living room window. “And if he comes through the window…”

They were staring so hard at the aperture in question that they jumped when they heard a creak from the direction of the hallway behind them. Carlos murmured a mild curse and Cecil came close to decapitating Koshekh as he spun around. The skeletal cat gave a halfhearted hiss and returned to grooming itself.

“If he comes through that window, I’ll be ready.” Janice wheeled herself into the room, balancing a plate of cookies on her lap. They were dusted with lethal-looking green and red sprinkles. “We baked these at the Girl Scouts meeting the other night, just in case.”

Cecil sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around his niece. “Oh Janice, I am so proud of you. But you’re supposed to be asleep!”

“Not this year, Uncle Cecil. Remember, I’m eleven now? Officially part of the Yule Vigil.”

Cecil gave her another squeeze and a fond smile before rising shakily to his feet. “I guess you are, huh. Well, Carlos, we have nothing to fear!” He patted her head and was turning around when, above them, another clatter resounded through the silent night.

Placing a cautionary finger against her lips, Janice handed the plate of cookies to her uncle. They advanced upon the fireplace. Carlos hurried after them on tiptoe, unsure about what danger they were about to face, but enough of a true Night Valean now not to question the town’s precautionary rituals.

Whatever covert Vigil manoeuvre would have followed must remain secret, however, because just as they neared the fiery hearth, a timid knock sounded at the front door. “Secret police, you think?” hissed Cecil, out of the side of his mouth. “With reinforcements?”

“Could be,” Janice murmured. “Or it could be a trap. Uncle Carlos, could you go and check? But be careful!” The scientist nodded and crept back towards the front of the house.

Cecil hesitated, unsure which family member most needed his protection. After a moment, he hurried after his boyfriend. It was the right choice, as it turned out, because he caught up with Carlos just as the scientist was about to blithely slide open the deadbolt. Stifling a curse, Cecil caught him by the sleeve and dragged him into the front parlor, gesticulating wildly at the window.

They each pressed an eye to the crack between the curtains. On the porch, instead of a friendly balaclava-clad official or the loathsome figure of the Seasonal Visitor, they saw… a goat. Its fur was reddish, dotted with faint black speckles, and its goatly face, illuminated by the cheery porch light, gave an impression of resignation combined with deep embarrassment.

Cecil’s mouth dropped open. “Is it…. yes, that’s Earl!”  While Carlos was still trying to parse that statement, Cecil ran to unlock the door. He beckoned the animal inside. “Earl! Come in! I thought you had plans this evening!”

The goat hung its head, let out a deep sigh, and walked inside, its hooves clip-clopping merrily on the tile floor. When Cecil reached out a hand to give it a friendly pat, it shied away, eyes narrowing, and let out a series of emphatic bleats. It clearly expected to be understood, but its outburst was greeted only with blank stares.

“I’m sorry, friend. I don’t speak goat,” Cecil explained. “Would you like some egg nog though? Is that a weird thing to offer you, in this state? It’s made with cow milk, at least.” This seemed to depress the animal even further. It wandered listlessly into the living room. Cecil and Carlos followed, quickly explaining the situation to Janice, who nodded sympathetically and did not attempt to pet Earl.

There was an awkward silence. Then Janice spoke up. “Hey! That doesn’t explain the roof stuff. If he was at the front door, who’s up there?” Earl raised his head, let out a “baa,” then rolled his eyes and went quiet again. “Sorry, Mr. Harlan,” said Janice. “I’m taking ancient Sumerian.”

“Hey,” came a cheerful voice from the hallway. “I hear stirring! I hope you saved some for this mouse!” Steve wandered into the room, clad in the reindeer footie pajamas that he insisted on wearing every year, despite Cecil’s threats to burn them on the Yule Pyre. “Can I join the party?” Cecil rolled his eyes, but Carlos poked him gently in the ribs, and he managed to hold his tongue.

“Dad! We have a goat. And a mystery.” Janice pointed to Earl and the ceiling, in turn.

Steve advanced on the goat, which backed up until its hindquarters were almost in the fireplace. “Ho ho! Earl! Well met on this winter’s eve. Let me guess: mistletoe? We’ll have you fixed up in no time.” He went to the window and pulled up the sash. “And what’s this about the roof? Someone up there too?”

The goat shook its head and bleated a response, as if to himself, . To his surprise, it was met with a thoughtful nod from Steve. “Oh yeah, Marcus. What, does he have wings or somethin’? Well, that makes sense.” He stuck his head out the window. “Hey there Marcus! Just hang on! We’ll fix old Earl up, and then we’ll come getcha!”

Cecil, Janice, and Carlos exchanged an incredulous look. Catching it, Steve gave them a theatrical wink. “What, you didn’t know I was certified in Ruminant Communication? Yeah, it was a 4H thing. Sometimes John Peters - you know, the farmer? He and I have whole conversations that way.” He chuckled indulgently. “Anyway, this is simple. He just has to be kissed - on the mouth, you know - by someone who’s not a goat. Who wants to do the honors?”

Janice looked dubious. Carlos looked at Cecil. Cecil shrugged. “Well, we have been friends for… however long. What’s a little kiss between friends?” Going to his knees in front of the goat, he leaned in and pressed a tiny peck to its muzzle. The world seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then the goat was gone; a red-headed, crimson-faced human in its place.

Steve clapped him on the back. “Aww, don’t be embarrassed, Chef Harlan! It could happen to anyone. And hey, at least your clothes came along with you. Should we get a ladder and fetch ol’ Marcus now?”

“Leave him,” Earl said darkly, touching a finger unconsciously to his lips. “He can have traditional carrots and alfalfa for his traditional holiday dinner.” He darted a glance at Cecil. “I’ll take that egg nog now, though, if you don’t mind. Heavy on the rum.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, they did rescue Marcus from the roof. Earl, who was feeling a whole lot jollier after about half a liter of spiced rum, even consented to deliver the requisite kiss (but not before the mogul promised, in goatly pantomime, never to smuggle illegal mistletoe into Night Vale again).

The wings were never explained, but then, neither was the dentistry.

Abby slept through the whole thing. When she wandered out to the living room early the next morning, she sniffed the air suspiciously, squinted at the two men asleep on the couch, muttered something about “mangers and millionaires,” and went straight back to bed.

In a rare show of remorse, Marcus had his entire holiday feast brought over to the Palmer-Scientist residence (along with a fresh set of clothes for himself, velvet dressing gowns being more appropriate for dinner _a deux_ ). He also provided a generous selection of trumtookas, slooslunkas, and blumbloopas, and he led several rounds of zoozittacarzay.  

And that night at dinner, he even carved the roast beast.  


End file.
